


ur permanent ride or die

by junkeroni (hotdammneron)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol!, Copious amounts of alcohol - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, The No Morals No Boundaries We Die Clingy Like Men Club, a reprieve from my usual melancholy sorrowporn, antisocial boyfriends of weird hyperactive idiots, attempted grand gestures of romance, chaotic horniness, gentle villification of dylan strome!, i want taco bell, irresponsible drinking competitions, just absolutely balls to the wall idiotic, marriage proposals!, mat barzal's weed brownies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 02:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotdammneron/pseuds/junkeroni
Summary: “Stromer thinks he can drink more than me,” Tyson says with a hand on JT’s waist, like he’s oblivious to everyone else in the room, which he probably is. Just you, me, and Dylan Strome isn’t the sexiest thought JT’s ever had, but he thinks it anyway.





	ur permanent ride or die

**Author's Note:**

> good evening kings, lets get this bread, and lose this self respect.
> 
> this is FULLY inspired by true events and exactly how my parents got engaged. starring tyson jost as my mom, jt compher as my dad, dylan strome as the douche who thought he could outdrink my tiny mom, and mat barzal as my mom's ex boyfriend's roommate. please expect nothing good from this. jt compher IS wearing a nice cable knit sweater through the duration of this, if you'd like to imagine that, since i personally find it very soothing to think about.
> 
> my twitter is mollstermash

“Come on, it’s gonna be fun,” Tyson whines, wrapping his arms around JT’s waist, really just fucking laying it on as thick as possible. He makes his eyes all big and looks up at JT, playing into the like, one inch height difference between them.

“Why do you think it’s a good idea to go to a party at your ex boyfriend’s house?” JT asks for the third time. 

“Well, technically it’s not Dante’s house, it’s Mat’s house,” Tyson explains, pouting just a little bit, because even JT has his weaknesses. “Dante lives there, but it’s Mat’s house. He, like, pays for utilities and all that adult shit, since his dad has money.”

“Why do you think it’s a good idea to go to a party at your ex boyfriend’s best friend’s house, that he lives in?” JT asks, pulling Tyson’s hands up from his waist to hold them at chest level. It’s sweet, but it’s not distracting Tyson from the fact that there’s an argument to be had that he’s clearly not winning. 

“Please?” Tyson sticks his lip out in like, his most exaggerated pout this week. 

“Why?”

“Mat always makes those really good brownies,” Tyson says, finally getting to something that might convince JT to take him. “Like, the pot ones! Plus, like, I’m running out of things to bug him about, and he always disappears halfway through parties to jump his boyfriend, so. It’d be fun? For both of us?”

JT sighs, pressing a kiss to Tyson’s knuckles. “I’m going to spend the whole time,” he says, a portrait of long suffering affection. “Standing in the corner, drinking one light beer with Anthony and trying to justify why I love you so much.” 

“But you do,” Tyson says, drawing it out into as many syllables as possible. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” JT says and finally smiles. 

 

“This is stupid,” JT says, one hand in Tyson’s back pocket (and, like, okay, JT’s a little possessive, and he knows that Tyson’s a little bit super into that) and the other trying valiantly to scrape up a piece of Mat’s weird brownie experiment of the night. But, like, only one handed, because he won’t let go of Tyson’s ass, and it’s kinda cute, in a weird way. 

“Tito’s already in the corner,” Tyson points out, kissing JT’s jaw and just cutting the brownies for him. The whole one-handed thing went from cute to sad in three seconds. “I think you’re soulmates.”

“We’re starting a club,” JT says, grabbing a napkin for the brownies. “It’s called ‘antisocial boyfriends of weird hyperactive idiots,’ and we meet whenever we get dragged to parties.”

“It’s so nice that you have friends,” Tyson says with a little smile, and JT kisses him. “Go get stoned. I love you.”

 

So, like, JT’s kind of fucked. He’s leaning in the corner with Tito, predictably, and the pot in the brownie’s finally sort of kicking in and he doesn’t really want to, like, move. Or think, or talk, or even like, breathe. Every breath feels too revelatory for him to handle. 

“Your boy’s gonna get into trouble,” Tito says with a point of his beer, and he sounds like a fucking dad or something, so JT starts laughing. 

“So’s yours,” JT says, kind of wishing the wall was made of a mattress or something, because he’s leaning kind of heavy on it, and that’d be really comfortable. 

“God, I love that moron,” Tito says, and JT nods, because that was some real shit.

“That’s some real shit,” JT says, since it’s really important that Tito knows that it was some real shit that he just said. 

 

“What the fuck?” Tyson says from somewhere across the room, and JT panics for a second, because that’s like, Tyson’s serious voice, and that can’t be good. 

“Go with god,” Tito says, glancing at JT’s worried eyebrows. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, you rat,” Tyson continues, and JT weaves his way through the little crowd to where Tyson’s standing, jabbing a finger accusingly at Dylan. “You fucking - trash bag.”

“Tyson,” JT interrupts, getting a hand on one of Tyson’s wrists. “Do we need to leave?”

“No,” Tyson says, not moving to free his hand but not looking particularly pleased about it either. “Stromer’s trying to start some shit, I’m not leaving.”

“All I said -” Dylan starts, and Tyson whips his head around to glare at him.

“I don’t want to hear from you,” He spits. “I will fucking destroy you. What part of this don’t you understand?”

JT touches Tyson’s shoulder, trying to be soothing, and Tyson leans into it. 

“Baby,” he starts, and stares up at JT with that same pleading look he always pulls out when he’s gonna ask for something kind of stupid. JT’s faced it when Tyson wanted to suck him off in the bathroom at his own grandmother’s house, when Tyson wants to buy fucking chocolate almonds instead of something good for dessert, and he’s facing it now. It’s fine. He’s strong enough. 

“Stromer thinks he can drink more than me,” Tyson says with a hand on JT’s waist, like he’s oblivious to everyone else in the room, which he probably is. Just you, me, and Dylan Strome isn’t the sexiest thought JT’s ever had, but he thinks it anyway. 

“Okay, okay,” JT says, and he goes to the kitchen to find something suitable for the task at hand.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Tyson’s settled on the living room couch next to JT, only a coffee table separating the two of them from Dylan. The table’s probably the only thing keeping Dylan alive, maybe. There’s a premixed bottle of sex on the beach with two little porcelain cups, because Mathew Barzal is a rich bastard who owns everything but genuine shot glasses. JT thinks they might be espresso cups. 

It’s like, they could’ve started a minute ago, but Tyson’s challenged Dylan to a staring contest now, and the dude’s perma-baked, so he blinks more than he has his eyes open, and Tyson apparently doesn’t understand the rules of staring contests well enough to know that he won already. JT’s willing to let this one play itself out.

“How are you keeping track of drinks?” Tito pipes up from where he’s sitting with Mat on his lap, and JT just about expects him to pull a notepad out of his pocket. 

“I’ll track them on my phone,” JT says, and Dylan makes this really just atrocious sound of protest. 

“You’re biased! You’re gonna let him win!” He squawks, flailing just a little bit, and JT’s a little impressed at how much he can apparently emote while stoned out of his mind. “We need a third party, come on, it’s not fair.”

“Everyone likes Josty more than we like you, douche,” Mat speaks up, half straddling Tito’s lap already. “You never pay for booze, and you’re stupid.” 

Dylan squawks again, having left his dignity at the door. 

“I still love you, bro,” Mitch says somewhere behind him, always sticking up for the other half of the No Boundaries, No Morals, We Die Clingy Like Men gang. They have a whole secret handshake, and it’s enough to distract Dylan for a whole minute before Tyson clears his throat to get them back to the point. 

So there’s twenty minutes almost between the initial challenge and the inaugural drink. And Tyson drinks first, filling his little espresso cup and downing it, holding eye contact with Dylan like he thinks he could ever be intimidating. 

 

“Kiss me,” Tyson says somewhere a third of the way through the bottle, leaning fully into JT’s space. “It’s for good luck.”

“Kissing you isn’t gonna make you any better,” JT points out, and he kisses him anyway. 

 

The room is silent by the time the bottle’s half empty.

Stromer’s sort of falling out of his seat, and Tyson’s all but laying on JT. He grabs the bottle anyway, and JT’s about to stop him when Tyson just - gives Dylan this look, flips him off, and downs like, a good half of the last bit of the bottle. 

“Suck my fucking dick, Stromer,” Tyson says, and Dylan starts to cry into the wood of the coffee table. 

 

“Marry me,” JT whispers with Tyson sitting in his lap a few minutes later, kissing behind his ear while Mitch tries to console Dylan, who hasn’t peeled his face off the table. JT’s a little worried there’s gonna be permanent dark circles on the table, if that shit’s like, communicable. 

“What?” Tyson asks, squirming a little bit when JT bites his ear. “I was thinking about, like, whether or not I can ethically insult him now,”

“You killed his ego, I think this is the longest he’s ever been quiet,” JT says, and Tyson grabs his hand. “I love you so much.”

“Love you,” Tyson mumbles, slumping against JT’s chest, because he’s stupid and gonna be super fucking hungover tomorrow morning, but that’s fine. “Call an uber, I’m sleepy.”

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” JT says, trying not to make it sound like a question, and Tyson humms happily. “Do you wanna marry me?” 

“Mmhmm,” Tyson says, twisting around just enough to kiss JT’s eyebrow, of all places. “I don’t want to sleep on Mat’s stupid leather couch.”

“Okay,” JT says, and grabs Tyson’s phone off the arm rest to call them an uber.

 

JT wakes up at the truly fucking ungodly hour of 8AM when he feels Tyson collapse back into bed, laying half on top of him. He smells like booze and bad decisions, and JT is absolutely irreversibly in love with him. 

“Sleep,” Tyson mutters, sort of slapping JT in the face. “Don’t wanna be alive.”

JT puts three of his fingers in Tyson’s mouth to shut him up, and Tyson bites him. He deserves it, maybe. 

 

“Hey, do you want to, uh,” JT says over breakfast a week later, nervously cutting his toast while Tyson scrolls through instagram. “Ring shopping? I think, we should,” 

Tyson looks blearily up at him, and there’s still a few creases on his face from his pillow, and JT’s never been so sure of anything in his life until -

“For what?” Tyson asks, looking back at instagram like he’s trying to be casual.

“Oh my god,” JT says, because he’s made about five mistakes more than usual in the past week, and proposing to an entirely wasted Tyson is number one. “Forget I said anything, fuck.”

“I already forgot,” Tyson says all bleary-eyed and fucking beautiful, and JT basically believes him.

 

So, the thing is, grand romantic gestures are super fucking hard when your boyfriend’s weirdly fucking sedentary in the winter months. JT has like, three different date plans, big fancy dinners and even a goddamn outdoor ice rink rented out, and every single time, Tyson wants to stay home, watch Kitchen Nightmares and go to bed at 10pm. 

Maybe they’ve just skipped past being twenty and stupid and directly to being an old married retired couple who sleeps all day, and maybe Tyson fucking hibernates whenever its under 70 degrees outside. 

It’s Saturday night, and JT thinks this is like, his time. He can convince Tyson to go out, take him to a nice dinner. He’s had the ring box in the pocket of his nicest suit jacket for like, a month now. It’s perfect. But there’s snow in the forecast in the next week, so apparently all Tyson wants to do is curl up in a ball in bed and watch every season of bakeoff in a day. 

“D’you want dinner?” Tyson asks from his blanket huddle when JT gets out of the shower. 

“Yeah, I was thinking we could go out? I’ve heard good stuff about this Mediterranean place downtown, it’s kind of fancy,” JT says, because it’s a chance that’s basically handed to him on a blanket-swaddled silver platter. “We haven’t had a date night in a while, y’know.”

Tyson just squints at him. “Do you have motives?” 

“What the fuck?” JT asks, stopping midway through pulling his shorts on. 

“This feels like a scheme,” Tyson says, pulling the blankets around his shoulders tighter and sitting up. “You’re trying to get me to do something. And you don’t need to put on pants. Stop scheming and stop putting clothes on.”

“I want to go out to dinner,” JT says, tone neutral, because fuck, if Tyson’s onto him, he’s screwed. “Pants are required to leave the house.”

“Don’t leave,” Tyson says, pulling his phone out of the void of their bed and jabbing at it sleepily. “I’m ordering something from doordash, whatever. I don’t wanna go out tonight.”

“Okay,” JT says, pulling off his half-on shorts and climbing up into the bed behind Tyson. 

“I want,” Tyson says, leaning back into JT’s space and refusing him blankets. “A fucking crunchwrap box. And a goddamn baja blast.” 

“You always do,” JT says, because it’s true, and Tyson glares a little when he turns around. 

“I’m a simple man, with simple needs, and simple desires,” Tyson says with a roll of his eyes, and he scrunches his face up when JT kisses his temple. “Stop being gross, what do you want for dinner?” 

JT hums, contemplating, tucks his chin over Tyson’s shoulder. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he says, and only worries a little bit about Tyson’s eyes getting stuck permanently rolling. “And, like, a fuckton of burritos.” 

Tapping through the menu on his phone, Tyson drops his head back onto JT’s shoulder, and JT leans in to kiss him, because he can. “You’re too good to me,” Tyson says with this sad little self deprecating smile, and JT - 

Christ, okay, it’s not a high point in his life, but he sort of tries to stand up with Tyson still laying on him. Tyson doesn’t fall, or break his whole face on the bedside table, but it’s a little too close for comfort.

“JT? What the hell?” Tyson asks, still all wrapped up in blankets and one of JT’s hoodies, and JT has to do this, like, now. 

“Gimme a minute,” he says, frantic, almost tripping over three different shoes on his way to the closet, but he somehow doesn’t die grabbing the box out of his suit jacket pocket. Their bedroom floor is like a goddamn minefield of tripping hazards, but that’s a matter for a different time. 

“What the fuck, babe,” Tyson says, sounding distinctly unamused when JT almost falls over on his way back to the bed. He manages to land more or less on one knee anyway, even if that knee is settled into the shorts he just took off. 

“Would you marry me?” he finally asks, like, for real, barely remembering to flip the lid of the ring box open. 

“What the fuck?” Tyson asks, again, and scrambles across the bed (losing three blankets in the process) to grab JT’s face and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. 

Like - it’s not perfect, of course it’s not. The only ring JT could afford is tacky as hell, and his foot’s kind of going numb, and Tyson’s probably going to fall off the bed and onto him soon, but it’s alright. 

“Are you saying yes?” he asks finally, just for a little clarification, and Tyson looks at him like he’s a moron. 

“Joseph Taylor,” Tyson says with that weird stern tone he tries to use sometimes, and JT grins up at him. His hair’s a mess, he’s wrapped up in blankets, and he somehow has morning breath at six in the evening, and JT could never love anything as much as he loves him. “Of course I’m gonna marry you. We’re gonna have a big stupid wedding, and we’re gonna get a big stupid dog, and you’re gonna have to take him for walks, and we’re gonna have really good sex all the time, even when we’re old and gross.”

JT scrunches up his nose. “We already have really good sex,” he points out, blushing a little too much and maybe grinning more than ever. 

“It’s just gonna get better,” Tyson says, taking a second to kiss JT again, and it’s inefficient because they’re smiling too much, and it’s perfect. “I want to give our dog a people name. Like, Matthew, or Robert,” he says, bodily pulling JT up onto the bed. 

“We’ll get around to it,” JT says, and Tyson does a little fist pump that should be miles from hot, but, well. 

“We need to be having engagement sex, like, a year ago,” Tyson mumbles against his lips, and that’s that.

 

(It doesn’t make sense, really, that Dylan fucking Strome should be the first person they tell about the whole engagement thing, but Tyson works in mysterious ways that manifest in post-coital snapchatting of his apparent drunken rivals. It’s alright. They’ll get around to the rest of it soon.)

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to my dad for proposing to my mom twice, and not knowing that i wrote this. peace.


End file.
